


The serious hunt of an elusive swordsman

by brothebro



Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [8]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon Typical Swearing, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Fanfiction, Jaskier has white hair, M/M, No Post-Mountain Geralt Vilification, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Some Humor, Temporary Character Death, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26721292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: Geralt must think he died. Must have seen his mangled corpse. Geralt… He just hopes Geralt slaughtered the bastard wolves that attacked him. Made a fur coat off their pelts. He can’t, no, won’t think of the worst-case scenario.Geralt is surely capable of besting a few wolves.He wastes no time, dons his Manticore armour set, secures his twin swords on his back, and is ready to start his journey to find the White Wolf.-This work is an Au ofi have often dreamed of a far off place, if you want to learn more and also read a fantastic witcher!Jaskier fic, go read it now <3
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735504
Comments: 22
Kudos: 378





	The serious hunt of an elusive swordsman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andrewminyards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/gifts).
  * Inspired by [i have often dreamed of a far off place](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24182785) by [andrewminyards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/pseuds/andrewminyards). 



> I have gotten permission to write this AU of an AU from the original author.  
> enjoy <3

The dragon mountain stands tall and menacing much like the golden dragon himself. Jaskier is a bit bummed he overslept and missed all the fun; namely the epic worthy fight between the reavers and the protectors of the dragons (a.k.a. Yennefer and Geralt, Tea and Vea. And Villetrentemerth himself of course). But no matter. He can always get the story later from Geralt. And with a few embellishments, it’ll make his greatest ballad to date.

And then he witnesses the fight between Geralt and Yennefer; not sure what’s this all about, to be honest. And as he prides himself on being an excellent friend, he rushes to alleviate Geralt’s spirits.

“What a day,” he exclaims, “Now, let’s go forget all about this, my friend. A good mug of mead, roast venison… Doesn’t it sound nice?”

Geralt looks lost for a moment, his eyes are pained, downcast. He turns to face him, a sigh escaping his lips, “Yeah. Let’s go Jaskier.”

They descend the mountain slowly, avoiding the dangerous path the dwarves had shown them on the way up, opting instead for a safer and less cliffy wooded area. Geralt is quite, more than usual, only responding with hums and the occasional click of the tongue at Jaskier’s constant babbling.

It pains Jaskier to see the White Wolf like this; heartbroken. He’s been in love with Geralt for so long and while he knows he’ll never have a chance with him, he doesn’t stop feeling deeply for the witcher.

Geralt’s pain is his pain, and so it’ll always be.

He just wishes he knew what to say, how to help Geralt forget about this whole mess with Yennefer -- to which the details he still doesn’t know.

He’s deep in thought, marching downhill, turning left and right around big trees and thick foliage. He doesn’t notice he’s distanced himself from his friend until it’s too late.

First comes a growl.

Then, several howlings echo all around him. Wolves, by the sound of it. They have him surrounded.

Fuck. He’s fucked. Where’s Geralt? He looks around him but there’s he can’t catch a glimpse of black and silver.

“Geralt!” he shouts as loud as his lungs allow him. He can already hear the wolves stalking, approaching before they attack. “Ge-” he tries again but a big blur of fur is upon him, sharp fangs having met their target. Hot searing pain blooms from his shoulder. Warm liquid runs to his calloused fingers.

He frantically tries to push the beast from atop of him, its large fangs embedded on the soft skin of his shoulder. He kicks and screams and scratches at the wolf, but to no avail.

The world is becoming darker by the second.

Fuck. It got him good, didn’t it?

He’s going to die here, isn’t he?

Fu-

* * *

Julian of Cintra opens his eyes for the first time in forty years. He’s in a dimly lit underground room, not a speck of dust on him. Memories of two childhoods, two adulthoods, human and witcher mingle together, swirl and make him nauseous.

He remembers being trained at Haern Teran. He remembers growing up in Lettenhove, being forced to master all literary arts. Trials. Studies. Solitude. Friendships. Sword and lute.

It’s giving him a headache.

He was Julian first before Tissaia offered him a second chance -- a vacation --, in being human. Then he was Jaskier. He died. And now, he must be Julian again, like Tissaia told him so many decades ago: _If you die, you’ll be back in your original body._

Fuck. He holds his head with both hands, the memories trying to find their place in his mind.

A flash of long silver hair and black armour, a man of dry humour and kind eyes, appears as a fleeting thought.

_Geralt._

“Fuck!” he yells, punching at the closest wall.

He needs to find Geralt as soon as possible. He needs to tell him he’s still alive. Well… in a way, at least. He’s a witcher now but Jaskier has been him at some point, _is him._

Geralt must think he died. Must have seen his mangled corpse. Geralt… He just hopes Geralt slaughtered the bastard wolves that attacked him. Made a fur coat off their pelts. He can’t, no, won’t think of the worst-case scenario. _Geralt is surely capable of besting a few wolves._

He wastes no time, dons his Manticore armour set, secures his twin swords on his back, and is ready to start his journey to find the White Wolf.

As he moves to the safehouse’s door his eyes catch a glimpse of his reflection on a big walled mirror. Horrid scars run through his face, the snowiest white hair cascade to his shoulders. Two bright beastly yellow eyes look back at him. A sight familiar and strange at the same time.

He shoves the strange feeling in the corners of his mind and opens the big door to the outside, all sorts of noises and smells permeating his sensitive senses.

_Time is of the essence and he better not waste it._

* * *

He must be the unluckiest bastard in the entire Continent. Surely, that must be it. There’s no other explanation to what’s been happening this past year. It’s either that or Geralt is remarkably good at hiding --which Julian knows for certain is not true.

After all, Julian managed to locate him not three months after he set out to find him. It’s just that by sheer dumb _lack_ of luck he hasn’t achieved the simple goal of crossing paths with the man.

He heard of a rumour of a white-haired Witcher –well, another white-haired Witcher, technically – being sought out by the royal court of Rivia for a quite _difficult_ , to say, curse that has befallen the eldest daughter of a duke. Supposedly, Geralt’s fame as the witcher who banished the curse that had turned Foltest’s only daughter and heir into a Striga, made the white-wolf an expert in curses, and had, therefore, landed him multiple high paying contracts on similar _issues_.

Anyhow, this led Julian to travel to Rivia all the way fro Redania for a chance to meet his witcher. And by Melitele, this would have been grand, a reunion worthy of tears and a fortnight of jubilation, if Geralt hadn’t left a week before Julian arrived in the kingdom, having completed the task in a minuscule amount of time.

Damn his competence and extensive knowledge on the matter of curses.

Julian didn’t let this minor setback dissuade him, however, and continued following Geralt’s trail in an attempt to finally meet up with the man. And he’s been doing so for over a year now.

He would either arrive too late to Geralt’s presumed destination, or his witcher would randomly decide to change course. And even once – gods that was absolutely terrible, and it hurts his brain just thinking about it – Julian was mistaken for Geralt of Rivia a couple of villages ago and the merchant that generously provided him with the _valuable_ information in exchange for half of Julian’s coins, that he had acquired after a very taxing and dangerous Forktail hunt, pointed him to the direction he came from. And the idiot, Julian was, did not think for a moment that, hey, he has long white hair and piercing yellow eyes himself now, it’s not a stretch to think that people might confuse him with another white-haired witcher, a fact that led him back to this godsforsaken village asking for Geralt, until a child, of all things, asked him why he’s looking for himself.

After this, quite embarrassing, charade, Julian decides to be more descriptive with his questions; formulate them in a matter no-one will ever mistake him for Geralt again. And it’s fruitful, at least.

He learns from a minor noble that Geralt was seen in Cintra and that Calanthe keeps him in her dungeons. _Juicy news sure fly fast – as much as Geralt’s appearance at Cintra can be considered ‘juicy’._ So, he sets course for the grand citadel, stopping only when necessary. He’s sure that this time he’ll manage to meet Geralt. The man can hardly elude him, jailed in a dark damp cell as he is.

Of _fucking_ course, he’s late again.

Bloody fuck.

When he arrives at Cintra, the city is in flames, an army of black and gold feasting on its remains. He fears for Geralt’s fate and he fears for his Child-Surprise, the lion cub of Cintra. His stomach churns and turns and twists, his breathing ragged and uneven at the sight of carnage. The stench of burning flesh and blood. His mind plays tricks on him, makes him imagine Geralt’s corpse among the casualties; deformed and bruised and rotting.

He tries to calm his frantic breathing, averts his gaze from the flames and forces the rational part of his brain forth. He sets course for the closest still standing village, which happens to be as far as south of the Sodden Hill.

And it seems in his unluckiness, for once Lady Luck is on his side. For Geralt was seen fleeing, passing through the village together with a young girl, not a day prior.

_It must be Calanthe’s heir. It must be Ciri._

So he rides without stopping. He rides and hopes that this time he’ll catch up with them.

But of course, nothing is ever easy for Julian of Cintra. Nothing’s ever easy for the last Manticore witcher.

Ciri and Geralt are prisoners of Nilfgaard, the stench of fresh blood filling the crisp night air. Geralt’s wounded by the looks of it, curled into himself and bruised and bloody.

Fuck. Fuck it all and thrice be damned!

He won’t let a bunch of soldiers treat his people this way. He’s furious, and rightfully so. He’s been looking for Geralt for so fucking long. _So long._

He approaches the enemy encampment – it’s only what? 14 soldiers? Easy – unsheathes his steel sword and leaps to cut the closest person in two. A manic laugh escapes his lips as he cuts and slashes and Aards the soldiers right and left.

It’s carnage.

He’s drenched in enemy blood and he revels in it. From the beginning, they didn’t stand a fucking chance. Not with Julian enraged as he is. Not when he has his witcher and Ciri to protect.

It’s over in minutes.

He gazes at the massacre that he created. Another laugh escapes his lips and he brings his hands to his mouth to stop himself. He’s gonna scare them. But fuck, he’s so tired. So tired searching for his witcher. So tired, but he’s finally here. He’s finally in front of Geralt.

His eyes meet Geralt’s and fuck, is Geralt trembling? Is he scared of him, now?

Julian drops his sword to the cold muddy ground and raises his hands in a placating manner.

“I won’t hurt you,” he croaks, voice rough. Ciri is unrestrained, he notices, and she’s scuttling to Geralt, trying to release him from his bindings. He meets her gaze briefly, her eyes are determined and impossibly wide from fear.

It hurts to see her like that. She was never afraid of him when he’d visit her on her birthday every year as Jaskier. _As a bard._

“I won’t hurt you,” he repeats, and wipes the blood and sweat and dirt from his face with the sleeve of his gambeson, “I want to help. Geralt is hurt and I have all the things needed to treat his wounds. Please, let me help, Ciri.”

“How do you know our names?” Ciri asks, brandishing a knife and shaking it at his direction.

“Who are you?” Geralt rasps, trying to get to his feet, a hand clutching at his abdomen. _He’s been stabbed. Fuck, this is bad._

“Geralt, my dear brave witcher. I am so sorry. I am so sorry it took me so long to find you. I know I look different – fuck, I know it, believe me… I-”

“You didn’t answer,” Geralt cuts in.

“You didn’t let me! And it’s hardly my fault you don’t recognise your best friend in the whole wide world!” Jaskier retorts, “Now, please let me sow this wound shut before you pass out from blood loss and then I’ll answer all of your questions.”

He moves closer to Geralt, taking a vial of Kiss from his belt to administer to the wound. He kneels before him and pops the bottle open. Geralt flinches at the sound but makes no move to leave.

Julian can discern that his witcher is trying to see past the horrid scarring, past the white hair and yellow eyes. He lets him.

“Jaskier?” Geralt breathes out, his voice trembling.

“I’m sorry, Geralt. I’m sorry I died on that bloody mountain. I’m sorry I didn’t manage to find you sooner.”

“It’s really you?” he registers Ciri whispering a question, eyes wide in surprise, and the salty tang of tears accumulating, thick in the air.

Jaskier hums and nods, a small smile adorning his lips. With deft fingers, he cleans Geralt’s wounds and pours Kiss on them to staunch the bleeding. He’ll need stitches, still, but that’s not something Jaskier should attempt in the middle of a field strewn with corpses.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says his name like a lifeline. Two bloody hands move on Jaskier’s face and he flinches at the contact. _How long was it since another person touched him willingly? he idly wonders._ “Jaskier. Jaskier. Jaskier,” Geralt chants and presses their foreheads together breathing hungrily, “My Jaskier,” he repeats and he’s so close – fuck he’s a breath away – and Jaskier has to hold back not to kiss his White Wolf.

He doesn’t have to hold back. Because Geralt, his sweet darling Geralt, presses their lips together. And the touch is so sweet, so intoxicating, and Jaskier leans in and reciprocates tugging hungrily at the other witcher.

“I love you,” Geralt says after they break apart, “I’ve loved you for so long.”

Jaskier chuckles, “I love you too. What is it… Ah, yes… Twenty-two years now?”

“Fuck, you’re a witcher, Jaskier,” Geralt says, an unasked question hanging above them.

“How are you a witcher?” Ciri asks for him. “And can we go somewhere else, please?”

“Come, I’ll tell you on the way,” he says and moves to assist Geralt with walking, “It’s a long – wait, no. Scratch that. It’s not very long. Magic, the answer is magic.”

“Magic,” Ciri repeats raising a brow.

“Oh, you know,” he starts saying, “Local witcher man gets tired of the Path, asks sorceress friend to transfer his consciousness to a human body in order to live a carefree life, proceeds to forget all about witchering but still follows a witcher around for twenty-two years – yes, the irony is not lost on me – dies and returns to his original body. And here we are.”

“And here we are,” Geralt huffs out a strained laugh.

Jaskier looks at his witcher, warmth blooming in his chest and thinks that maybe they are finally going to be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope ya liked it and I'd love to hear your thoughts on this take <3


End file.
